the misadventures of someone who prolly STILL shouldn't be allowed to raise children...

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Most of you are not aware that I am married to a special combat warrior.

I will say it again so that it can sink in -- a SPECIAL COMBAT WARRIOR.

Or, at least that's what I have been led to believe. Please note that I still lock the doors at night.

He began practicing the particular form of martial arts (a blending of several of the more traditional schools of martial arts) when he was going through a life-transition of some sort. I encouraged him, as I felt that the experience would fill some need in him and, well, it was exercise, he could at least use the exercise. And let's fact it, when it comes to hobbies, N. has the attention span of flash paper.

Fast forward two years and this is, now,my life with a Special Combat Warrior:

Almost daily evaluations of the "fruits" of his ritualistic beatings -- elbow bruises, cut knuckles, knee bruises, foot injuries, and rug burns in areas I would consider almost naturally protected from carpeting in all but the most limber of individuals.

Mandatory sparring sessions in which my participation consists mainly of standing in the middle of the kitchen flinching wildly as N. kicks and flails around my head.

Endless hours of "independent study" focused exclusively on identifying, analyzing and critiquing the various fighting styles used every single kung fu*, samarai or jacked-up karate kid movie, Ultimate Fighting Championships, various martial arts video games, commercials, whatever... all the time, any opportunity. We study.

Repeated exposure to the phrase... "and it ends in a DEATH BLOW!"

Repeated exposure to stories of the master's childhood in an unspecified Asian country that sound remarkably similiar to the stories of all those Kung Fu monk masters I have been learning about through the aforementioned "independent study."

Questionable glances from neighbors who can see my husband practicing his staff routine in the living room while nugget, the fur baby, cowers in the corner.

Speaking of nugget, let's add the ever-decreasing levels of trust between nugget and N. The practice sessions are certainly not contributing to an overall feeling of security for her.

Ongoing concern that N. will gouge out his own eyeballs or incapacitate some poor, defenseless samaritian who is simply trying to return a dropped article, like a pen or a shopping list, in the parking garage. From here the imagintation takes me on a wild ride of civil suits and court-ordered probation... F-U-N.

Constant reminders that I am, in fact, living with a SPECIAL COMBAT WARRIOR. I should be thanking my lucky stars.

I will admit that the special combat warrior status has provided me with an almost limitless source of daily entertainment and fodder for the N. Joke-O-Meter. While dining in a local eating establishment a few months ago, I noted a troopgagglepackcrewposse merry band (what do young boys travel in?) of young boys decked in their Dojo best. I turned to N. and pointed out that the hooligans youngsters had the same color belts on as his. "Maybe," I quipped. "You could ask them to come over to play with you."

Eye daggers... p-i-e-r-c-i-n-g m-y v-e-r-y s-o-u-l!!!!!!!

But here is my question... when, fair readers, does football season start? I think that we might need a new "drug".

* I did enjoy the hell out of Ku*ng Fu Hust*le... I would be lying if I didn't mention it.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

** WARNING -- this post may contain references to off-color, bathroom humor. If you do not find discussion of flatulence to be appropriate, better turn around and come back later. Thank you, management.**

Not sure how many of you are familiar with the term "dutch oven"... N. was actually the person that introduced me to both the term and the experience (one, in retrospect, that I gladly would have lived my entire life without). Essentailly, in this case, a dutch oven involves farting under the covers and then trapping your bedmate so as to cause some level of asphyxiation. I know, totally infantile, what can I say... he has a twisted sense of humor and I have been told on several occasions that this is how N. shows his undying love and devotion to me.

Now, if you happen to have the fortune of living with someone whose gas does not smell like roadkill four days into a South Texas summer, you might be ok. I, however, seemed to have knit myself for eternity to a one-man, industrial-strength stink bomb. Seriously, there is something wrong with him. I have been begging him to see a doctor about this issue. It just isn't human, I don't even think it is natural. When he farts, the fur babies even get up and leave the room and they lick their own (and each others) asses SEVERAL times a day.

It is the worst at night, as if by lying on his side, he is able to conjure all the stink of hell and shoot it right up my nose. He has the power to wake me from a dead sleep, gagging for air. I think that he must fart several times over the course of an hour and it all builds up under the covers, marinating, little smell molecules bumping nasties and reproducing stink just like rabbits. All this occurs so that when one of us moves, there is a rush of putrid air, stale fart stank that hangs above me, choking the life out of me like a Ring Wraith. Silent, ephemeral, deadly. Sometimes, it is so bad... we have been forced to evacuate the room.

And I always get caught in it, because the immediate survival instinct is to move away from the smell QUICKLY... flight is the only thing, my brain surmizes as it is wrestled from sweet slumber, that will save us from this horrible fate. But, you see, flight is not right. By flipping over or scooting back, I just release more of the fart in big wafts of air... the smell can then penetrate the pillows, the curtains, cinge my nosehairs, burn the paint off the wall, and force the fur babies into the farthest corners of the room.

So last night, I fought my instinct. I was roused by the stink of a thousand farts, just a trickle of it drifting out from under the covers, teasing me. Panic began to take hold, I wanted to roll over, get away... instead I stayed put and endured the trickle of smell, turning slightly ever so often to get gups of fresher air. It was horrible, but bolting would have released the beast.

I stayed there for 20 minutes... waiting, breathing slowly and deliberately. I waited out the beast, I conquered the stank, I prevailed.

2 hours later, the beast caught me by surprise and punished me for my uprising... I shall not ever win.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Last night, N. (formally referred to as M., just so that y'all don't think that I am sleeping around), as we were lying in bed discussing butterbean, had an important question to ask me.

"Why," he pondered, "is butterbean always so nasty when I go up to give him his 11 PM bottle? I mean, I go to get him, gently lift him from the crib, coo in his ear, the room is all quiet and dark... and then all of a sudden, he is all GAAAAAHHHHRRRRRWWWW!" * **

[NOTE:order to get the full effect of the sounds you have to screw up your face as if you have just chugged rotten milk... that's right. now, you have it.]

T'Pon - "Well, I mean N., when I wake you up at 10 AM after close to 11 hours of sleep on a Saturday morning, you have been known to be downright volatile. As I recall, you have even tried to hit me."

[NOTE: in his defense, when he tried to knock me out... he was half asleep and very ashamed of himself once I recounted the series of events. Still no reason to stop bringing it up. frequently.]

N. - "Well, you aren't offering me food... you are usually flipping on lights, yelling at me to get out of bed already... On the other hand, if you came up, cooing in my ear with the room dark, offering me pork chops, and applesauce and au gratin potatoes. I would be really nice to you. I would be damn excited to see you in the morning."

T'Pon - "You aren't excited to see me in the morning?"

N. - "That is not the point."

But, I happen to think that it IS the point. This weekend. I am going to make the pork chops and applesauce and au gratin potatoes, gently come up to him in the dark room, coo in his ear...

AT 3:30 IN THE FREAKIN' MORNING.

Let's just test this little theory.

* Yes, we dream feed butterbean to help him make it through the night.

** Yes, we bottle-feed our kid formula... I know, we are horrible people who should be forced into sterilization programs to prevent us from damaging anymore precious children. If you feel this way, do me a favor...keep it to yourself. There is more to this story than I care to share.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Upon arriving home yesterday, my wonderful husband M., informed me that he wanted to discuss my blog. He was concerned by my infrequent postings and wanted to really encourage me to get back into the swing of things.

I paused here in the conversation, wondering (silently) to myself what has sparked this sudden interest in my online confessional? Why is M. showing concern for this personal project that heretofore he encouraged, but never with such gusto or conviction. We continued...

He expressed his opinion that I really need to post more frequently -- that he believed it was a positive outlet for me. [Is he trying to get me to write so that I will stop bothering him with my incessant chatter... I have been known to be, lets say, chatty...] He also indicated that there were some aspects of the blog that he didn't really like. [Aha, confirmed my inner monologue. Now we come to it, the true motivation for this little discussion. Could it be that he feels like I am not affectionate enough with him, have i portrayed him unfairly in his eyes???]

Nothing so complicated... In fact, M. doesn't like his Internet ego's nickname. "M." isn't doing it for him. He doesn't feel that it accurately represents all that he is, all of his potential. He has requested a change, post haste.

We discussed options, ranging from NAILS to Pinky (his office nickname recently arrived upon as a result of me introducing a pink polo into his wardrobe... very progressive and creative of his co-workers, yes?) to LOVER (which, incidentally, makes both of our skins crawl. We have a couple acquaintance that we sometimes see at parties, etc who refer to each other in public as "lover", it is weird)... ultimately, my husband decided to really break out and request the following new nick-name. So, without further delay, I humbly re-introduce y'all to my love, my heartburn...

N.

(that's right, all that fuss and discussion to go one letter up in the alphabet... earth shattering. I was so worn out, I had to go directly to bed.)

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Love my husband... he is smart, caring and funny as all get out. But, he is not the most, shall we say, attentive person I have ever met. It is not unusual for me to walk around the house for a number of days, tired, haggard, ill-mannered, before he realizes that something might be wrong. I have had a new hair cut AND color for upwards of a week before he has noticed it. I have huffed and puffed around the kitchen slamming cups and plates into the dishwasher and the next morning there is a new pile waiting to greet met.

And I generally know exactly what I am getting for my birthday/mother's day/anniversary because I have told him what to get and sent him an online link a couple of days before.

I am not sure that he has ever surprised me (well, with the exception of our engagement, but that is another story for another time)... that is until this morning.

Butterbean has not been sleeping as well as he used to. I recognize that this may be due to a number of factors, not the least of which is God punishing me for discussing my child's advanced sleeping behavior's with mothers not quite so blessed. Don't get me wrong, he is 15 weeks and we only have one nighttime feeding. I am a lucky, lucky bitch who doesn't deserve it... but his pattern is different none the less.

For the past 7 days, his one feeding has been falling between 3:30 AM and 4:30 AM, instead of the previous 5:30 AM. This is added to the fact that my husband and I both go to bed at the same time (in a vain effort to maintain some semblance of an intimate life... because once my sleep train has left the station, none can board) and I am always up for the first AM feeding. I also have insane problems getting back to sleep once i am awake. I usually lie about in bed with my eyes closed hoping that when i open my eyes more than 3 minutes will have gone by. Alas, I have forgotten what a good sleep is... and now that I am back at work. I am CRAP.

Last night, while trying desperately to maneuver a bottle into butterbean's screaming, wide open mouth (attached to a gyrating body) in the pitch black dark, I reached breaking point. It occurred to me that I was being taken advantage of... that somehow I was putting bean to bed, waking up to feed him and start his day, while M. enjoyed an evening of peaceful slumber and drowsy goodness.

I began to count the number of hours that I am denied in sleepy land compared to M. (@ 14 per week, if you are counting and I am). I planned my speech perfectly, lining up my points, all in an effort to convince him that he needed to step up, recognize my fatigue, and start carrying a little more weight in the nighttime schedule. I was indignant.

I might have kicked him when i got back into bed... but that can't be proved.

This morning, after retrieving butterbean from his crib, I was ready to address the issue. I started by stating (in my best feel sorry for me pathetic voice) that the bean was up at 3:30 for his feeding and took almost an hour to get back to sleep and I didn't get back to sleep until 6:30 (alarm went off at 6:50, one snooze)... as I took in a deep breath for what I expected to be the second coming of the Nixon-JFK debate (i am always JFK in this scenario), M. caught me completely off guard... he said,

"we need to get you more sleep. I should help out more getting him to sleep."

PFFFFFFFFFFHHHHT! That is the sound of the wind coming out of my sails.

No resolution on the how yet... I know that the proof is in the pudding, but don't you just love it when something unexpected happens.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

NOTE: If you have not read A Secret, Part 1, STOP. This post will not make sense and you will be confused. Go ahead and catch up. We will wait.

OK, so life and my little hobby were moving along quite nicely. Only three people knew my secret: my future husband, my friend K. and my mother.* And then things began to unravel. It began with my first trip with M.

We were just getting settled and buckled into our seats. I had a nice, older gentleman seated in the aisle seat next to me (I also regularly sacrifice the window seat since meeting M.). I began to formulate the story that I would share, compiling the details, working out the interesting tidbits that would become my flying alter-ego. I was eagerly anticipating his introduction when I looked over at M. and he smiled at me. OMG! It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was stuck on this flight for 3.5 hours and would not be able to lie... I could not work with him sitting there. Lying with a partner requires collaboration, collusion. Like Sean Connery in Entrapment, I work alone. Partners fuck it up. I had to fake sleep the entire flight, missing the beverage service AND the snack. I think that M. ate my pretzels. In fact, I am sure of it.

I resigned myself to the fact that opportunities to pursue my hobby would be limited to business trips and other solo adventures. And then, the unthinkable.

It was our wedding. A beautiful day, if I do say so myself. We were at the reception and had just been treated to three of the most wonderful and touching speeches. Truly, I was moved. Not a dry eye at my table (couldn't see beyond that for the tears and I am not a sentimental person). I guess that K. decided that we needed a little comic relief, because she proceeded to tell the entire crowd gathered there for the blessed union that the bride is a confessed, compulsive liar. And... had been doing it for years.

(let me give you a moment to just get your arms around that)

Suddenly, 132 people knew my most intimate secret. My husband's v. conservative family, my new co-workers, the rectors from our church, MY GRANDPARENTS... everyone I knew and loved now knew that I lied for FUN. In fairness to K., I never told her NOT to tell anyone. I kind of assumed she would know better. It certainly never crossed the threshold of my mind that she would be so public in her disclosure... My bad. People laughed, it was all in good fun.

But after the wedding, a friend of M.'s family took me aside and said "Well, at least your friend K. didn't talk at the rehearsal dinner. We all might have missed this beautiful wedding." Super. But... that isn't even the worst of it.

Now, I can't really ever enjoy my flights. Every time we go visit M.'s family in Ohio, they ask me who I was on the flight up. I have tried to explain that I don't do it anymore, but they still ask, insist on hearing the stories and re-telling the betrayal to everyone who hasn't already heard it the 20 times before.

It isn't anonymous anymore... it isn't secret. I can't enjoy it because I know that at least 132 other people know that I am doing it.

I guess that I will have to go back to eating paste in the closet, listening to Celine Dion CDs.

*I don't remember how they found out. I am sure that I confided in some guilt-inducing drunken stupor.

I understood when I married M. that I would have to make some sacrifices... and I do so happily (he is that cute). I am no longer allowed to watch "Law and Order" marathons without being informed that "we have seen this one like 4 times" (i know it, but that isn't the point). I am sometimes subjected to demonstrations of his "special combat warrior" skills*. I can not just blow my money away on shoes and handbags without consulting with him first. You get the idea... There is
however, one sacrifice that I did not realize I would have to make.
Something that I would have to give up as a function of just being
married. No, it is not what you think and if you are
going to keep your mind in the gutter like that, shame on you.I lie. I lie to strangers. On planes.

And I have done this for YEARS. Prolly all the time.

I don't know why I do this, or even how it started. But somewhere along the line, I decided that if people felt OK about disturbing me on flights, I felt OK about lying to them for a solid 2-4 hours (depending on destination). I have told people that I am an artist, a nanny for some rotten spoiled kid, a historical consultant for films, a struggling actress**, and (my personal favorite) an oceanographer. I used to think that it gave me a way to test drive my day dreams, but really I think that I just liked making shit up.

Now, before you get your panties all in a bundle, there are some rules of engagement... feel free to employ should you decide to give this a go (believe me, it is addictive and somewhat exhilarating).

1. Never say you are a doctor, lawyer, or financial planner. This could get you into a lot of trouble.2. Never, ever, ever lie about your health. That is just sick.3. Don't bite off more than you can chew.

The real key to the task is to keep it simple. Have a reasonable amount of information on whatever you are lying about and never provide too much information. The way that people get stuck lying is that they give out too much fucking information. A brief illustration:

Person 1: What do you do for a living?Person 2: I am an aerospace engineer for NASA, have been for like 15 years. It is a great job and I live right there in Houston. Other day, in fact, I had lunch with Buzz Lightyear. What do you do?Person 1: I am a taste-tester. Person 2: Really?Person 1: Yep.Person 2: How long you been doing that? Person 1: About 6 months.Person 2: How do you get involved with that?Person 1: Well, my uncle works for this ice cream company and told me that they were looking for people to come in and test new flavors...Person 2: Does it pay well?Person 1: Pays the rent... Person 2: So, what is the worst flavor you have ever tasted?Person 1: mmmm, none are really all that bad. I don't like nuts, so I never like the nut flavors... probably chocolate pistachio.

HINT: both people are lying. But in my book Person 1 is believable because he/she waits for Person 2 to ask more questions before blowing the load.

I realize that you may think less of me and come to doubt the authenticity of subsequent posts due to my confession, but it is what it is. Don't judge me because I am sharing.

Now, why have I had to sacrifice my little habit since getting married? Reasons are two-fold... read on in part 2.

* more on this ridiculousness later. The kid is going to poke his own eye out on day.

** people love to get involved with famous people... even marginally, potentially famous people... even not famous people at all (like me). you would not believe how many people confess to "i think that i saw you in that..."